Crimson Rain

“I thought you were going to slow down now, spend more time with Mom. That’s what you said when I was home last summer.”

The tears brimming in her eyes ran down onto her cheeks. Paul wiped them away with his thumb, just as he had when she was a child. “Honey, your mom’s been busy, too. We did talk about retiring, but it seems that she’s been getting more work than ever. She hasn’t been home much.”

He didn’t mean that to sound like a criticism, or to put the blame on Gina for his own frequent absences, but Rachel took it that way.

“According to her, you’re the one who’s been too busy to retire,” she said testily.

Paul sighed. “Things are never one-sided, Rach. It takes a lot of work to make everything come together in a home.”

“Yeah? Well, it looks to me like both of you would rather work on other people’s homes.”

“Rach,” Paul said softly, determined that this not evolve into an argument, “I don’t understand what’s gotten into you. You’re entirely different from the girl you were last summer. And I’m sorry, but it’s hard to believe that you’re this angry just because I haven’t been e-mailing as much.”

“Well, in the first place,” Rachel said, mimicking his composure, “I’m not a girl, Daddy. I’m twenty-one, and I’ve been away from home almost two years now. I think I’ve reached a point where I can make my own mind up about some things.”

“Of course you have,” he agreed. “Just…honey, tell me what you want me to do. How can I make things better for you?”

He recalled having asked that same question far too many times over the years, always with the nagging feeling that he was becoming the kind of parent who didn’t know or care about his child’s feelings. Yet he did care. He apparently just wasn’t at all good at showing it.

If that was the truth, however, it was also true that Rachel had never seemed able to tell him, clearly, what she needed from him. Like a runner who sees the finish line ahead, he had always fallen just short of it—and the race, after so many years, had left him feeling winded. Inept.

Rachel had turned her back on him again, and Paul looked at her, so fragile-seeming, so young. His heart did a flip-flop. He loved her so much. Why had they never been able to reach each other?

And what might he be able to do about that now?

“Your mom wants us all to pick out the tree tomorrow,” he said. “Would you like to go to lunch, first? Just you and me? We could catch up on all the things you’ve been doing since summer.”

She didn’t answer immediately. But he saw her shoulders ease from their stiff, almost military posture, and when she turned back to him she put her arms around his neck and hugged him. “Sure, Daddy,” she said, her words muffled against his shoulder. “Let’s do lunch.”

The next day, Paul left Soleil Antiques early, determined to reach the Four Seasons before Rachel. They had planned to meet in the lobby, and he was afraid she would read too much into it if he were late. When he arrived right on the dot of noon, however, Rachel was already there, and she had other plans.

“I can’t stand this place anymore,” she said nervously, with a sharp look that scanned the lobby. “Let’s get out of here.”

Giving him no time to ask questions, she turned quickly and headed for the front doors. Out on the sidewalk, Paul said curiously, “The Georgian Room used to be a favorite of yours when you were little. What happened?”

“It’s just too…much,” she said. “All those chandeliers and things, I mean, after living on cheese puffs and burgers at school. Besides, I don’t think the Georgian Room is open for lunch.”

“You’re probably right,” Paul agreed. “It’s been a while since I’ve been there. Well, we could go to any number of restaurants. I’m not in a hurry, are you?”

For a moment, Rachel didn’t answer. Finally, she shoved her hands into her pockets and said, “I’d just as soon get this over with.”

The chill in her tone was almost as bad as the way she turned on her heel and left him to follow her down the street. Paul had to hustle to keep up with her pace, and the ring of her boots as they tap-tapped ahead of him on the sidewalk seemed to sound an alarm. He noted how thin her shoulders looked in the old camel’s hair coat that she’d refused to part with for years. It got shabbier and shabbier, and the more it did, the more she seemed to like it.

She looks so thin, he thought. When did she lose so much weight?

And then, Dear God, don’t let her be anorexic.

His fears on that score, at least, were laid to rest when Rachel stopped in front of a hole-in-the-wall greasy spoon and said, “This’ll do.”

The narrow little place had a green see-through shade on the front window, with aging black booths running along one wall and a bar along the other. The five men and one woman sitting at the bar looked as if they’d come in years ago and just never left. They eyed Rachel and Paul suspiciously, and Paul wondered if he and Rachel looked like cops. Inwardly he smiled. If I had a badge, I’d pull it out and flash it, he thought, just to clear the room. God knows, at least three of America’s Most Wanted could be sitting right here in downtown Seattle, drinking away the days till they were found.

Rachel took a seat in one of the booths. Paul hesitated, looking at the cracked vinyl seat. Carefully he dusted crumbs from it with a paper napkin. Looking at Rachel, he noted the slightly mocking grin.

He gave her a rueful smile. “And to think I wore my best suit to have lunch with you.”

She made no comment.

The bartender dried his hands on a stained towel he’d tucked into his waist and called out, “What can I get you?”

Rachel ordered a Pepsi and a chili dog with all the trimmings. Paul ordered a beer and a bag of chips.

“Aren’t you eating?” Rachel asked.

“Not anything that human hands have touched,” Paul said, smiling.

There were pool tables in the back, and the clicking of balls hitting each other resounded down the long, narrow room. Paul couldn’t resist saying, “You come here often?”

Rachel shrugged. “There are all kinds of dives like this in Berkeley. Students learn to seek them out. They’re cheap.”

“Rach, you know you don’t have to do that. We send you enough money to eat well. What are you spending it on?”

“What makes you think I’m spending it? Maybe I’m saving it for a rainy day.”

“Are you predicting rain?” he asked, attempting a smile again.

“You never know,” Rachel said with a tone of finality.

Paul wanted to follow up on that, but decided to change the subject instead.

“Come to think of it, I remember eating burgers and pizza when I was in school. I didn’t have much money, and—”

“You’ve told me all about that before, Dad,” Rachel interrupted. “Must we go through it again?”

Paul felt hurt at her flippant tone, but answered, “I was only going to say that I thought you’d want something a bit…oh, fancier, when you came home.”

“The setting doesn’t matter, Dad. Not for what we have to talk about.”

Paul turned his attention to the napkin that was still in his hand. If he could remember how to do it just right, he might be able to make the figure of a bird out of it, the way he had when Rachel was a child. Maybe that would somehow help to make this day right.

The napkin, however, was too flimsy, falling apart in his hands. It seemed a metaphor for this place, this day, and the way his relationship with Rachel was going.

The bartender brought their food and Rachel devoured her chili dog in record time, washing it down with the Pepsi. Paul toyed with his chips, but drank the full mug of beer, wishing he’d ordered whiskey or almost anything that would kick in fast. The beer didn’t at all help the nervousness that was growing as he waited for Rachel to speak her peace.

It finally came.

“So, Dad…what’s on your mind these days? Or should I say who?”

Paul thought he had braced himself for whatever was coming, but even so, he was shocked by the frontal attack. He set down the empty mug and tried to keep his expression bland. “What are you talking about?”

“Oh, please. Mom may be too busy to see it, but when you’ve been away, like I have, it’s plain as the nose on your face. You haven’t been spending all those hours at night at Soleil, have you? You’ve been…shall we say, with someone else?”

His mouth was suddenly so dry he could barely speak. Taking a sip of water, he managed, “I don’t know what you mean.”

Her voice became icy. “You must think I’m really dumb. Mom, too.”

“Rachel, I have no idea—”

“Oh, come off it, Dad. You’ve been paying good money to send me to college. Give me some credit for not being stupid.”

“I have never once thought of you as stupid, Rachel.”

“Then why don’t you just tell me how long this has been going on?”

He couldn’t answer. That Rachel knew about Lacey was bad enough. That she expected him to talk about it was worse. Casting that much light on his affair—his betrayal of Gina, and yes, Rachel, too—made it impossible for him to think of it as anything but sordid.

Rachel gave a snort that broke the silence. “I know she was always your favorite, but I never thought you’d let her back into your life. Or ours.”

“Favorite—?” Paul began, confused. Then it dawned on him, and he felt as if his entire body, having prepared for a long-term, drawn-out war, had suddenly ceased fire.

“You’re talking about Angela?” he said, relaxing back against the booth. “Rachel, what on earth ever gave you an idea like that? I haven’t seen Angela since she was six years old!” Paul half laughed, the idea was so preposterous.

“You lie pretty good now, too,” Rachel said with a strange smile that gave him chills. “Nice going, Dad. I’m almost proud of the way you’ve grown.”

Paul shook his head, so bewildered he couldn’t speak. What had become of his daughter? Why was she saying these things?

“I don’t know why you would think I’ve seen Angela,” he said in as steady a tone as he could manage, “but even if I had, I’m your father, Rachel. I don’t have to report to you.”

“Obviously not,” she said, “given the number of times I’ve heard from you since summer.”

He stared. “Is that what’s really bothering you? Rach, I thought you were just as busy as I’ve been. I didn’t think you’d miss hearing from me. I’m sorry. Really, I am.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Rachel said. “It’s not about the e-mail, Dad. It’s about all those years when you didn’t have time for me because you were so busy missing Angela. You think that didn’t hurt? You think kids don’t see those things, no matter how young they are?”

Paul, who at first was too thrown to stand up for himself, began to get angry. “Rachel, that was years ago. Why are you bringing it up now? I thought—God, all that time working with Victoria, and you’re still hurting about those things? What does it take for you to get over it?”

“Maybe not having it start up all over again,” she snapped. “Maybe getting her out of our lives once and for all!”

“But she isn’t in our lives,” he argued. “I’m telling you, I have not seen Angela since she was six years old.”

Rachel studied him. “You really haven’t?”

“No. I swear to you. I have not seen or heard from Angela since the last time your mother and I went to Minnesota to see her. That was fifteen years ago.”

“So you haven’t had a phone call from her, or a letter, or anything?”

“No, Rachel. Not a thing. If I had, I wouldn’t have kept it from you.”

“Ha,” she said scornfully.

“And what does that mean?”

“It means you never wanted me to know anything. You took her away and you never even let me go visit her.”

Paul sighed. “We thought that was best. We’ve always just tried to do the best for you, Rachel. Your mother and I love you. We really do. I wish you could believe that.”

Rachel fell silent. He thought she was going to argue the point, but she shrugged back into her coat and said, “Let’s blow this place. Mom’ll be waiting to get a tree.”

Paul didn’t know whether to be disappointed or relieved. He half wanted to continue the conversation, while the other half didn’t want to go near it.

He put enough money on the table to cover the food and a tip. Again he found himself following his daughter as she breezed out the door. The door came swinging back and almost struck him in the face.

It was as if she were deliberately erecting a wall between them. I can’t let that wall get too high, he thought miserably as they walked back to the Four Seasons, where they had both parked. If she makes it any higher, I might never be able to breach it.

At home, Gina was already cleaning out the trunk of the Crown Vic, which was big enough to put a tree in with a bungee cord holding the lid down.

“Let me help you with that,” Paul said, taking a heavy flat of bottled water from her.

She threw him a grateful look and pulled her red scarf closer around her throat. She looks like she did in college, Paul thought. The cold, misty air had softened the few lines around her eyes, which were bright with anticipation. She’s like a kid about Christmas. How could I have forgotten that?

They began the rounds of the tree farms in Snohomish, where the traffic was thinner and they could enjoy the drive. Since it was two days before Christmas, a lot of the better trees had been taken long ago. Gina insisted they make the tree shopping spree as much fun as possible, singing songs in the car as they always had, to pass the time. She seemed not to notice that Paul and Rachel were more quiet than usual. Their search spread farther and farther away from the city, until, finally, they came across a farm that hadn’t been too stripped. It was their fourth try, and Gina and Rachel stood together in the mud amongst rows of Douglas firs, shivering.

“What do you think of this one?” Gina asked.

“Too skinny,” Rachel complained. “I like this one better.” She stood holding a branch of a wide nine-footer.

“That won’t even fit through the door!” Gina said, smiling.

Paul was three rows over when he called out, “Hey, look at this!” They trudged valiantly over the rutted ground, expecting to reject this one as they had the past five.

“I love it!” Rachel said when she saw the tall, perfectly shaped fir. She cocked her head to the side and smiled. “No holes, no broken limbs. You always were the best at picking them out, Dad.”

“Oh, I don’t know. It’s only taken me—” Paul pushed back his jacket sleeve and looked at his watch “—two hours and four tree lots this time.” But he smiled, grateful that she seemed to be getting into the spirit of things. Maybe this day would turn out all right after all.

Finding the “perfect” Christmas tree had been a tradition ever since he could remember. There had been times over the years when he’d thought about leaving Gina, when it had seemed as if there was so little left of their relationship it hardly made sense to go on. Even the bad Christmas Eve memories, however, couldn’t spoil the fact that there was something solid and safe about doing things like this together, and knowing they would be doing them year after year.

When it came right down to it, there hadn’t been any good reason to break up his marriage. Gina might have distanced herself from him, but she still maintained a surface relationship, keeping up the house, being there for Rachel. He’d never even thought of straying…not until Lacey came into his life, offering boundless energy when he was weary, and light at a time when his very existence seemed to grow darker every year.

“Earth to Dad!” Rachel was saying. “Hello?”

Paul came back to the matter at hand. “So you really like this one? Should I start cutting?”

“Absolutely,” Rachel said. “Okay with you, Mom?”

“Cut away,” Gina replied, blowing into her hands for warmth. “And fast. Let’s get the heck out of here!”

“Darn it,” Rachel said, “I told you to wear gloves. But not to worry.” She put an arm around her mom as Paul began to saw through the trunk of the fir. “We’ll be at the tearoom soon. You can warm up there.”

The tree fell, and Rachel cried, “Attaboy, Dad! You’d put Paul Bunyan to shame!”

Paul grunted. Looking at Gina and his daughter, at the smiles on their faces and the way they both rose to the occasion when good spirits were called for, he could only think: I wish I were a Paul Bunyan, a giant possessed of superhuman powers. Maybe then I could figure out a way to fix this moment in time forever.

After dragging the tree into the house and changing clothes, they drove down the hill to the tearoom. In an old Victorian house with several differently decorated rooms, it was warm and toasty from a huge fireplace in the large front room. Taped chamber music was soft and soothing, and the scents of cinnamon, apples and other holiday treats stimulated the appetite and brought back memories of traditional Christmases Paul had enjoyed as a child.

This, too, was a tradition that Paul, Gina and Rachel had followed. First the cutting of the tree—from a lot where trees were specifically grown for Christmas, to ease Rachel’s concern over the destruction of the forests—and then tea, to warm themselves up.

Over the subdued murmur of voices and the gentle clinking of bone china cups against saucers, Paul looked at his wife and daughter. Rachel’s cheeks were still pink from the cold, and the bright pink scarf she wore mirrored them. Her eyes shone in the candlelight. Without warning, a memory rushed in: Angela, and the way her eyes had been so like Rachel’s in color, that clear, lovely hazel, yet always with a flicker of mischief in them.

Rachel was wrong in thinking he’d had some sort of contact with Angela. Yet her instincts were right. Everything about this season combined to form a gunnysack of immense proportions that he seemed destined, always, to carry on his back. He knew that if he opened that sack, more bad memories than he’d ever be able to live with would spill out.

It was one of the reasons, he admitted to himself, that he’d become involved with Lacey. In September, the stores had already been bringing out the Christmas toys and decorations. They were everywhere, and Paul had begun to dread the coming holiday even more than usual this year. There were times when he felt certain his life was over, and other times when he wished it were.

This past summer, he and Gina had barely seen each other for weeks on end. She was working on a house up on Camano Island, more than an hour away, and she often came home late. Finally he had stopped going home after work, and had begun to have dinner in the city. His favorite place was the Gordon Biersch Brewery Restaurant, because there were always plenty of people there—young people, active and happy, or at least seemingly happy as they laughed and drank together after their day’s work. Sitting in a bar drinking wasn’t Paul’s idea of a rousing good time, but having dinner at the bar and watching everyone around him enjoy themselves made him feel less lonely.

He hadn’t started out with the thought that he might meet someone. At least, not consciously. He told himself he was merely passing the time. Then one night, a young blond woman at the other end of the bar began to make eye contact with him. At first, he was embarrassed. He hadn’t been with anyone but Gina since they’d met in college. On this particular night, however, Paul found himself wanting someone to talk to. That was all, he swore to himself—just talk.

So when the woman smiled at him the third or fourth time their eyes met, instead of looking quickly away as she’d done at first, Paul took that as an invitation to move to the stool beside her and join her for a drink.

It had been awkward at first. Paul found himself at a loss for words. Funny, he thought. All this time I’ve been wanting someone to talk to, and now I don’t know what to say.

But the woman made it easy for him.

“Hi, I’m Lacey,” she said softly, holding out a hand. “May I buy you a drink?”

Paul smiled and shook her hand. “I thought the man was supposed to buy the woman a drink.”

Lacey laughed and tossed her head, shaking back the lush blond hair that fell over her face on one side. Her eyes were a deep, deep green, so deep that when Paul looked into them he felt like a teenager striving for just the right poetic phrase. What he came up with was clichéd, he knew, but he honestly did feel as if he were falling into the depths of some long-forgotten, ancient sea. As for her complexion, it was creamy and flawless, except for a small half-moon scar at the corner of her right eye. She had covered it with makeup, making it less noticeable, but when she turned into the light from behind the bar, it stood out in sharp relief.

Paul was glad she had a flaw. Without it, he might have been intimidated by her beauty.

“What old-fashioned world did you come from,” Lacey teased, “thinking the man has to buy the drink?” Nodding to the bartender, she pointed a finger at his nearly empty drink glass. “Don’t tell me. You’re married, and you haven’t dated in years. And you don’t want to get involved. Well, that’s perfect, because I don’t want to, either.”

The bartender set the drink before him, and Paul relaxed. They began to talk. At ten o’clock they were still talking, and Paul, shocked at the time, said that he had to go.

“Maybe I’ll see you here again,” he said tentatively, unwilling to commit to an actual meeting, but hoping she would be here, nonetheless.

“Maybe,” she said. “I stop by after work now and then.” She touched him on the cheek with a fingernail that was bright red, like her lips. “We’ll see.”

That had been in August. Four short months ago, but he felt, now, as if he’d known her forever.

Their first conversation had carefully skirted personal information. Instead, they had talked about Microsoft, the Huskies, the Mariners, Boeing, the traffic…endless minutiae. In succeeding talks he told her about Gina and Rachel. She told him she had moved to Seattle in June and was working temp jobs. It had been difficult at first, but now she was established with one particular temp company, and in demand as an assistant to local CEOs. She living frugally, but was doing all right.

She seemed to want nothing from him but companionship, and that eased Paul’s mind about what he was doing. By the time a month had passed, however, Paul couldn’t tear himself away from the three- or four-times-a-week meetings at Gordon Biersch’s. He began to tell Gina he was working late, and she had accepted that.

But then, why wouldn’t she? he thought now as he looked across the table at his wife. He had never before given her any reason to doubt him.

And here she was, holding the family together as usual over the holiday—keeping the traditions and maintaining a brave facade for Rachel, even though she must know, as he did, that their marriage was falling apart.

Or was it a facade? Had Gina actually convinced herself there was nothing wrong? Was it possible she couldn’t see how much their relationship had deteriorated?

There were times when Paul hated himself for the betrayal of his wife, and he prayed for the strength to end it.

“Can we decorate the tree tonight?” Rachel asked from the back seat as Paul swung the Infiniti into the driveway. “That tea really hyped me up.”

Gina restrained a yawn. “Oh, I don’t know…”

“C’mon, Mom. Talk her into it, Dad.”

They had left the tree standing in a bucket of water in the front bay window of the house, facing the Sound and the city. When it was decorated and lit, it looked “awesome,” as Rachel said every year, when they drove up the hill.

“We’ve still got two more days till Christmas,” Paul said, wanting only to go to bed. “Can’t it wait?”

“Boy, you two are party poopers this year.” Rachel pouted. She slid from the car and ran up the front steps. “Last one in has to untangle the lights!”

She slid her key into the lock and disappeared through the doorway. Lights appeared in the hallway and living room. Gina looked at Paul and shrugged. “What do you think?”